


Two Roads Diverged

by Daiako (Achrya)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Full Shift Werewolves, Injury, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Pack, Scent Marking, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Threesome, Violence, Werewolves, Wolves mate in triads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako
Summary: It was Gandalf's fault. Bilbo was a respectable hobbit in good standing and well regarded by most, thank you very much, but then that wizard came with his talk of adventure. Now Bilbo is recovering from a warg bite, housing a bunch of very shady (and overly handsome) dwarves who happened to save his life, has an odd mark appearing on his skin, and, oh yes, it seems he's some kind of skin changer now, so that's just lovely. To say nothing of all this talk of 'Thirds' and 'Soulmates', alphas and omegas, evil plots, mad kings, lost mountains (How exactly one loses an entire mountain is what Bilbo would like to know), and curses.Damn that wizard.





	1. Blame the Wizard and Foolish Nephews

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Robert Frost's poem, The Road Not Taken (Which I will no doubt regret as soon as I hit post.) 
> 
> "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
> And sorry I could not travel both  
> And be one traveler, long I stood  
> And looked down one as far as I could  
> To where it bent in the undergrowth;
> 
> Then took the other, as just as fair,  
> And having perhaps the better claim,  
> Because it was grassy and wanted wear;  
> Though as for that the passing there  
> Had worn them really about the same,
> 
> And both that morning equally lay  
> In leaves no step had trodden black.  
> Oh, I kept the first for another day!  
> Yet knowing how way leads on to way,  
> I doubted if I should ever come back.
> 
> I shall be telling this with a sigh  
> Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
> Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
> I took the one less traveled by,  
> And that has made all the difference."

Bilbo had once heard that before a person died their entire life flashed before their eyes. All the good, all the bad, the joy and love, the pain and heartbreaks, all laid out before them like a scroll to consider and go over. In that moment a hobbit could make peace, let go of the things that weighed on them, and accept moving on to what came next with a clear mind. Bilbo had always thought it sounded very romantic and lovely and, even, hoped that his parents had experienced such a time of peaceful reflection before their deaths.

It was something he’d taken comfort in.

As he dashed through the thick unbrush of the forest, stones and roots catching at his feet, mud clinging and trying to hold him back, there was no peaceful record of his life playing before his eyes. When he fell and rolled down a soft embankment to splash into a shallow stream, the smiling faces of his parents did not swim before his eyes. When he tried to pull himself out of the water, dripping set and slipping in slick sand, and a howl that shattered the night made his heart seize up in his chest, there was no acceptance in him.

Just fear and anger and the silent chant in his mind of ‘That damnable wizard. This is his fault, I knew this was a bad idea!’. Oh how he hated Gandalf in that moment, hands scrambling over sharp river stones that bit into his soft palms and tore at his nails (or was he tearing at the rocks) and a stitch in his side making it hard to breath. How he hated himself for that moment of curiosity and loneliness driving him out of his door and for listening to Gandlaf’s last words: “I’ll be in Bree. 5 days to arrive, then another week there. If you change your mind that’s where you can find me.”

He’d changed his mind, fool that he was. He’d packed and run out of his door two days after Gandalf had left, a strange desire that he couldn’t put a name to taking hold and driving him. Maybe it was the thought of his mother, who had longed for one last adventure but never had the chance, and how she would have gone happily. Maybe it was the lingering spark of something, a thrum of excitement under his skin and in his heart, that the wizard had left behind.

Maybe he was just tired of doing the same thing day after day: wake, eat, chores, eat, business handled, eat, market or garden time, another meal, visiting with friends and relative or perhaps reading or writing, and so on and so forth. Every day, with little variation. It should have made him happy, like it made his kin and friends happy. He should have been content in it, with no desire to leave his cozy smial at all and certainly not for some vague, but dangerous, adventure as proposed by some daft wizard who he hadn’t seen since his mother died.

And yet he’d done just that. Left and gone dashing off to Bree, checked into the inn and asked for the wizard. The innkeeper had told him Gandalf had been there but wasn’t at the moment, but hadn’t yet checked out. Bilbo hadn’t been concerned at all, all too happy to find a spot to sit and drink and swap stories with the big folk milling about, when he’d been approached by a man claiming to be sent by Gandalf. The wizard was outside the town, he’d been told, waiting for him so they could get an early start in the morning.  

He hadn’t thought to be suspicious or question the man’s motives. He was looking for Gandalf, the man said he knew where Gandalf was, so off he went.

Into the woods outside of Bree’s gates, nattering on about adventure, happily being lead through trees and towards a pinprick that the man claimed was a fire and camp in the distance.

Like an idiot.  

Such an idiot. He was a fool, felt his mistake in his burning limbs and tight lungs as he tried to force himself to his feet only to stumble. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, sinking up to his wrists in soft sucking mud and sand. He heard scrambling behind him, imagined he saw the underbrush shaking and felt the heavy steps of the beast shaking him shaking the ground. He gasped out, heart stopping and terror freezing him.

Wargs. Huge wargs with razor sharp teeth and slathering jaws, chasing him through the forest. He didn’t know where they’d come from or where the man he’d been trailing behind had gone; one minute the man had been there and the next he’d vanished into the trees and the howls had started. Bilbo had taken off without a thought, memories of the Fell winter that he’d thought long buried bubbling to the surface. Wolves, made bold by lack of food, bodies thin, fur mangy and patchy, full on bald, bleeding, and scabbed in places. Eyes beady and crazed, yipping and foaming at the mouth in their mad hunger.

Snow and ice turned red by blood, the snapping of bones and tearing of flesh, shouts the the hobbits who fell behind and wouldn’t make it across the frozen over river. The smell of blood, cutting through the nothingness of that bitterly freezing winter day. And Bilbo, young and trembling in his mother’s hold, screaming as his father tripped and the wolves converged on him.

The thought of that being him, of being torn apart while he still breathed, had sent him blindly into the forest, no idea if he was headed back towards Bree or to his doom.

He’d seen flashes of his pursuers, knew they were as tall as he was, like wolves but more twisted, crueler somehow, fur dirty and ragged, eyes glowing yellow in the darkness as they ran and stalked him, growls and barks that sounded almost like laughter as they ran him down. Sometimes they’d jump ahead of him, send him tripping and falling back to another direction.

His lungs and heart were going to burst in his chest, like overripe fruit left out in the sun too long. He couldn’t even pull himself out of this forsaken riverbed, sliding down the wet earth every time he tried to haul himself up the bank. He caught onto roots, dug his feet in, but the ground crumbled beneath him. His mouth was sour with fear and bile; the only thing keeping him from being sick was the feral, inhuman almost-laughter.

He was going to die like his father had died and no one would even know where he was, how to find him. He would forever be Bilbo Baggins who’d left his safe home to chase a wizard and never returned.

Lobelia would take his home and oh, that was not what he wanted his last thought to be, it really wasn’t. Why couldn’t he think of something pleasant, like warm bread and jam or warm summer days or his mother’s soft hands that had always smelled of lavender? Why, as he dragged himself up and the sound of paws beating against the earth, splashing through water, was he wishing he’d confronted Lobelia about the silver he just knew she’d stolen and all the rumors she’d started about him not being a proper hobbit worthy of Bag End.

No family, no spouse, no reason for such a large home that miserable hobbitess had said so many times, and he’d just smiled politely thought it all and he should have-

Something clamped onto the back of his jacket, a very nice velvet affair with very fine stichting that he was very proud of, and pulled. He dug his fingers into the dirt, caught rocks and roots. Fabric tore, the ripping sound resonating through him all the way to his teeth. Pain shot through his as a nail caught something and tore free. He kicked back, felt rough fur, kicked harder and then-

He screamed as strong jaws clamped onto his leg, sinking in deep, and then everything became fire. He dropped back, hit the ground hard, and the world darkened and shook as flamed licked up his leg, jumped into his flesh and held fast. There was a jerk and then he was flying back, rolling across the ground.

Someone sobbed, far away.

A shadow fell over him. He forced his eyes, blurred and wet, to focus long enough to see teeth, stained yellow under the blood foaming around them and black gums, lips pulled back and tongue lolled out in a parody of a smile. His breath stopped, his heart stopped, everything stopped, except the teeth coming closer closer-

And all he thought think was ‘damn that blasted wizard.’

A streak of tawny gold slammed into the warg and, with a confused whine, it tumbled away from him and back into the stream with a splash. Growling filled the air as the warg and what had hit it twisted and fought. The golden animal (a wolf? Maybe. It was hard to...hard to see. To think. He felt so sick.) was much smaller than the warg but had latched onto it’s neck and was hanging on tight as the warg rolled and thrashed, trying to escape the claws shredding it’s back. There was blood, in the air, staining fur, running free.

Bilbo sucked in a breath into his burning lungs and pushed himself back over the ground. Tried to, at least, but a wave of pain had him crying out and reaching for his leg; blood smeared over his hands and all he could see was sinew and muscle, bone hidden under blood and dirt.

The sobbing grew in intensity. His throat burned.  

Color drained from the world, leaving it all grays and growing blackness.

The other wargs he’d seen in the woods jumped from wherever they’d been, rounded on the fight. Bilbo could see their bodies tensing, knew they were about the leap into the fray.

Another wolf came streaking out of the trees and into the riverbed, placed itself between the two wargs and the scuffle happening behind him. It bared its teeth and puffed up, fur standing on end as it growled, low and threatening. The wargs seemed to hesitate and in that time another wolf leapt down, near silent aside from the muted splash as it touched down.

The first warg yelped. The golden wolf had ridden it down and, as Bilbo watched, the warg’s belly was torn open. A steaming mass of innards and blood tumbled free; the warg’s legs twitched and it whined, low and warbling then gasping. It tried to move, to stand, collapsed into its own insides and went still.  

Bilbo’s stomach convulsed and then he was heaving, thick and sour, onto the earth. The wargs skittered back.

Something gleamed in the darkness, metal under moonlight, and a shadow fell onto one of the wargs. Another flash and the warg was no longer connected to its head.

Blibo blinked and the world vanished, went silent. His last thought was ‘Oh, I’m going to kill that wizard’ and then nothing at all.

\---

Thorin grimached at the mess on his sword as he dragged it out of the last warg. The beast had tried to escape, jumped clear up the embankment but Frerin had been snapping at its heels and managed to hold it up long enough for him to follow and finish it off. He bent down and dragged his weapon along the fur of the warg, resolved to be content with that until they returned to camp and he could clean it properly.

A excited yip and a shout of his name had him looping back to the stream, Frerin loping along at his side and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Idiots, the three of them. They were supposed to be laying low, waiting for information from Erebor, not chasing after human shifters and saving stupid hobbits from their well earned fates and...looking at Kili’s bare, hairy ass as he tore strips from that hobbit’s jacket to wrap up his leg.

Thorin slide back to the steam with a groan. If Aule was kinder they’d be able to keep clothes when they changed and he’d never be subject to seeing his nephew’s ‘bits’ like this.

“What are you doing?”

“He’s been bitten.” Kili said without looking up, whole focus on binding the hobbit’s leg. Which, from what Thorin could see, looked like so much brutalized meat. He wasn’t entirely sure it was salvageable. In the time it had taken them to leave their camp and follow the sounds to the wargs they’d done quite the number on the poor thing.

Thorin felt a tinge of regret for not being faster. Kili had been in the town, lurking the inn for any signs of their contact but instead of coming back with information he’d come back making a fuss about men skin changers luring away a hobbit. Thorin wasn’t one for getting involved in the affairs of others, just as others never cared for the affairs of dwarves, but wargs. He hated wargs and if ever there came a time where he allowed one to live when he could have stopped its heart...well, it had best be because his own life had ended. Anything less wouldn’t have been something that would let him sleep at night.

Fili was laying on his belly, nosing at the hobbit’s face and sniffing at him. He yipped again and Kili nodded in agreement. “We think he’ll live.”

Thorin frowned hard. “And you’re bandaging him instead of taking his head?”

Kili looked at him askance. “Uncle, we are not beheading a hobbit.” Between that and Fili’s scolding look one would have thought Thorin suggested something truly awful, like sharing a meal with elves, not something that was standard practice for dealing with warg victims who weren’t dwarves.

Dwarves they always gave a chance to turn right, even if most of the time they ended up killing them in the end. But men...men always went wrong.

“You’d rather leave him to turn alone and terrorize the town?” Assuming he didn’t succumb to that leg wound first. Which seemed likely; healing would happen fast, if he was turning, but Thorin wasn’t willing to bet on whether it’d be fast enough. Or put faith in Fili and Kili's diagnosis ability. 

Kili shook his head, eyes widening. “No! But. We could take him with us! Just for a little bit, to see if he’s turning. He might not!”

“Never seen any hobbit wolves.” Frerin added, sideling into place at Thorin’s side, stretching and shaking out his hair, beads clinking. “It wouldn’t be right to cut off his head if we aren’t sure he’s going to turn." Thorin wasn't petty enough to suggest they cut out the hobbit's heart instead. Or, rather, he was, but his brother kept barreling on, not allowing him an opening. "And turn badly at that. I don't want a 'what if' sitting on my head and you shouldn't either.”

Kili nodded, eager to have a powerful ally in his crusade. “If he was a dwarf-”

“He is not a dwarf!” Thorin snapped.

Kili’s jaw tightened in a stubborn gesture and his bottom lip poked out. “I’m not going to kill someone that may not turn warg. It’s not right.”

Thorin bit back another groan. Kili and Fili were little more than children. They didn’t understand, not really. Oh, certainly, they’d been trained up the right way and knew that warg bites drove their victims made, and would turn them into wargs at well. Wargs were like them, skin changers of a similar sort, but they weren’t like them in the ways that mattered. Most couldn’t take their birth forms back after their first moon, they ate the flesh of even their own kind, and the answered to the call of only the darkest of masters.  

Where wargs roamed orcs and goblins liked to follow. And that was why they killed them and their victims. Nothing good came from letting the heart bleed for them and hoping that things would turn out. Thorin had been down that road and had his heart broken as he watched friend and family become twisted and wrong.

Fili and Kili’s father was among that number and the grief had nearly ended him. He didn’t have the heart left to spare for a hobbit but these two...these two had too much. Perhaps because of their father’s end.

Frerin felt too strongly for the bitten. He saw what he'd lost in all of their faces and if Thorin could have left him behind he would have saved them both the pain of something like this. 

He often longed for his mate but never more than he did looking at his nephew’s hopeful faces and the tension in his brother's shoulders as he stared at him, brows furrowing. Dwalin would have ended the hobbit quickly and cleanly, knowing it for the mercy it was. Better to die now and not suffer through becoming a dark, forsaken beast.  

“He’s tiny.” Frerin nudged him and offered a smile that didn't touch the ice in his eyes. “We keep him until the moon and if he goes warg he’ll be what, rabbit sized? You’ll be able to punt it and be done.”

“Punt it.” Thorin deadpanned.

“Punt it.”

Thorin looked at his nephews and found himself on the receiving end of two sets of puppy dogs eyes, one brown and dwarven and the other blue and wolfish. Back to Frerin and, damnit, more puppy dog eyes and a wobbling lip for good measure. Thorin’s lip curled in disgust. This was emotional manipulation of the most shameful sort. Had they no shame?

No, look who he was with, of course they didn’t.

Still, his brother had a point. The hobbit wouldn’t be rabbit sized, no, but he wouldn’t have the size of the ones who had once been men or even the ones who had been dwarrows. And he would be disoriented after he first turned, barely able to stand.

He would be easy to dispose of, assuming pity didn’t stay their hands for too long.

It could be a lesson in misplaced compassion for his nephews if nothing else. There was no teacher like experience and reality.

And it would get them to stop looking at him like he was a wraith hiding under their bed or had announced there would be no birthdays this year or eaten the last sweet roll, all of which were equal levels of offense to those two. 

Oh, that he could just order them to obey him. He was their leader, the head of the pack and the first alpha but when it came to his family he might as well be a mere blacksmith. Frerin had always been too cheeky for his own good and Kili was very much a young alpha, testing boundaries and pushing at Thorin endlessly as he tried to find his place.

And Fili...the less said about his struggles with his older nephew the better. He had never been so grateful to not have had pups of his own as he’d been since Fili and Kili had come of age.

A half dead hobbit was not the hill Thorin was going to make a stand on, not when nothing but a headache and sulking would follow.

“Fine, keep your  new pet, but you’ll have to look after him and tend to that leg. Losing it won’t help matters. And if he goes warg you’ll take his head.” The twin cheers that had started cut off abruptly, Kili looking stricken and Fili whining.

Frerin sighed. “Thorin-”

“And you can carry it, after you’ve pulled a bone from that warg.” He interrupted. “Kili, shift back and scout the area; I doubt there are just these three here. Fili, with me.”

With that he stalked off back in the direction of that camp. Let them have their hobbit for the two weeks until the moon, then mourn when the inevitable happened.

He would have nothing to do with it.

“I never have these issues with Dwalin.” He muttered mournfully. Fili huffed out a laugh at his side. Thorin aimed a half-hearted kick at him and missed completely, Fili ducking away with a happy bark.

Brat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Things I feel I should communicate before anyone gets too invested. No, I don’t know where this is going. (Actually I've given it some thought and can now say I have a glimmer of an idea.) Yes, this is self-indulgent werewolf/abo trash. No, that doesn’t imply a light or fluffy story. Yes, Dwalin/Thorin/Bilbo is endgame but all other pairing tags are...accurate and called for. But! If you aren’t scared off then come, let us venture onward.
> 
> The hardest part of this was deciding if Frerin would be dead or not, but the back story I have for Thorin is depressing enough without a dead brother to go with it.


	2. Lost and Found

The first time Bilbo woke up he wasn't strictly awake, not really. Or, perhaps, he was awake but the pain kept him from realizing it fully. He couldn't think properly, could barely see around a wobbling haze that had fallen over his eyes, and he tried to move the pain slammed into him like a runaway wagon. Sharp pain, radiating from inside of him, stole the air from his lungs and made the world turn black for an all too brief moment, and got worse by the second. It was too much to even say where it came from, radiating everywhere and lighting all his nerves on fire at once.  A scream tore loose from somewhere deep inside of him, clawed at his throat, and echoed around him.

Sounds he hadn't realized were there dropped away, leaving only the echo of his scream.  His eyes burned and he felt wetness rolling down his cheeks. His body spasmed, twisted in on itself, and he screamed again.

Oh god it hurt, it hurt so badly, like nothing else ever had before.

“-still. He’ll tear his stitches!” Someone shouted. He felt pressure on him, strong hands gathering him close to something warm and firm. More warmth, more hands, come from the other side, holding him between the two hard forms. There was a humming in his ear, just barley cutting through the fog wrapping around his mind, and fingers stroked through his hair. It was, no doubt, meant to be comforting but as his body jerked and spasmed, every involuntary movement making white hot pain dance up and down his body, it was confining and frightening.

His disjointed thoughts turned to wargs, chasing him down, baring down in him, holding him in place, and tearing at him. He choked on another scream, terror bubbling up inside of him. His eyes flickered open to find blurred faces hovering over him, one dark and the other light. Not wargs and yet he couldn’t calm himself or stop his shouts; the pain was just too much. His vision darkened and bile pushed up the back of his throat, thick and sour.

“He needs to drink this.”

Something pressed against his lips and splashed into his mouth with a burst of bitter flavor. He coughed and gagged, felt whatever it was dripping down his face. There was beat and then hands were touching his face, tilting his head back, and something warm and soft touched his mouth. He inhaled, stiffening in shock, and again bitterness filled his mouth in a slow trickle along with a swipe of something warm and rough over his tongue. He swallowed reflexively.

A cool sensation flowed down his throat to his belly and then spread outwards immediately, dulling the pain and the frantic tumbling of his brain. Another swallow, a pause as lips left then returned. He swallowed again, more of the fluid making it down his throat than the first time, and then lips were replaced with a cup; he drank down the medicinal tasting brew with greedy gulps, careless of what escaped his mouth and how odd it made his throat feel. It left his tongue feeling heavy and strange, like it was coated in a film of oil, and all too soon his head began to feel as if it had been shoved full of wool.  

He didn’t know anything that dulled pain so fast but he couldn’t be anything but grateful for it.

His lids began to feel heavy and his body numb. He blinked, the darkness over his eyes edging out a bit, and saw more blurs, again one dark and one golden, leaning in close to him. Someone touched his forehead, hand blessedly cool against his skin, and a deep rumbling voice called to him.

“Hobbit? Can you hear me?”

Bilbo blinked again, searching for words that refused to come to him. Strange, he was normally so good with words; his mother had once said he’d be able to charme even Farmer Maggot out of some of his crop if he was so inclined. But now there was nothing, but a head that felt too heavy and fuzzy on the inside and a mouth that wouldn’t work for him.

That rumbling voice said something else and try as he might to catch it he could not.

Bilbo’s eyes slipped shut and everything went dark.

 

\---

 

Kili let out a relieved sigh when the hobbit went limp between his body and Fili’s. Watching the small creature thrash and quake, body contorting in ways it shouldn’t, had been like a nightmare but so much worse. Nothing Kili’s mind had ever conjured had been so terrible. He’d been able to feel it, muscles twitching, rippling, and jerking under his hands and against his body as tried to keep him still. On top of that the hobbit was burning up, literally hot to the touch and sweating through his clothing in spite of the forest having gone cool as night came again, and his leg carried the cloying scent of infection to it.  

Worst of all had been the screams. The noises the hobbit had made had been more befitting a dying animal, feral and torn from deep in his small body, piercing the silence of the forest as he screamed his pain to the sky. Kili had never heard anything like that in his nearly eighty years. Even Fili, who was normally quick to react and nearly unflappable had been frozen as they stared at the writhing hobbit until Thorin had barked at them to hold him still so he couldn’t hurt himself.

It had been harder than Kili had expected to do so. Looking at the frightfully still and quiet hobbit now, so much smaller and softer than they were, he could hardly believe the creature had been as strong as he had been. The hobbit had nearly bucked both him and his brother off before they’d set aside their unvoiced fear of hurting him and put their considerable strength to use. They were dwarves and they were wolves, they could break the bones of others if they dared to forget themselves, so they never did. He would have thought the hobbit would break beneath their strength but he hadn’t.  

“Frerin.” Thorin said after a few moments of strained silence. Even the forest around them was quiet, the owls and insects having fled into the night. It was eerie.

Frerin pushed his hair back from his face, grimacing slightly. “Yes?”

“Was it truly necessary to kiss the hobbit?” Thorin asked, no small note of exasperation and judgement in his voice. Frerin stood up with a scoff and shoved the now empty cup into his brother’s hands. Kili exchanged a look with his brother over the hobbit and was rewarded with a tired eyeroll.

All their lives they had been told how similar to their uncles they were, with their near identical age gap, one of them being dark to the others light, and their tendency towards mischief and while that may have been true the differences were much too great for Kili to truly believe it. The relationship between his uncles had been uneasy for as long as Kili could remember, a rift existing between them that no one would explain. They worked well together of course. The sons of Thrain could fight side by side without words or even looking at the other and still know where their brother would be, what he would be doing, where to stand and swing. They handled matters of trade and governorship flawlessly. They lead their people as a unified front. They played nice in front of their nephews.

But under that they tolerated each other at best.  

Kili did not doubt that they would lay down their lives for the other, that there was love there, but that didn’t change that his uncles tolerated each other at best. Something had happened at some point to cleave them apart so completely and that chilled Kili to the bone. Somewhere along the way the Princes of Durin had split apart, becoming Thorin of the Oak and Frerin, the healer, and their paths had diverged while still running parallel.

Kili couldn’t, didn’t want to, imagine him ever being that way with Fili. His brother knew his mind so well that he finished his sentences, reached for things before Kili fully realized he needed them, and was always just where Kili needed him to be. He often looked at his uncles and thought he would rather die than be as they were. Not having Fili at his side would end him.

Frerin returned to them, new bandages and a bowl of salve in hand. He flashed them a tired smile before beginning to unwrap the hobbit’s wound.

Thorin watched with narrowed eyes then turned away. “I’m going to town to see if Nori has turned up. Fili, come with me.”

His brother rolled away from the hobbit and up to his knees to quickly shed his clothes. He rolled his shoulders then, with a shake of his body, changed. Kili watched through hooded lids, an odd shiver spreading over his skin. Fili made the change an artform, fur rippling over his skin, teeth lengthening, and body changing fluidly, everything happening in a way that was nearly beautiful instead of ugly. There was never a point where he looked like some malformed inbetween thing. His bones didn’t crack and snap, his gums didn’t bleed as his teeth came in, and when he fell forward onto his paws he didn’t twist or whimper in pain.

Kili was never certain if he was more envious of the ease in which his brother wore his fur or entranced by it. It depended on the day, he supposed, and today he was leaning towards ‘could watch Fili move from one form to the other everyday for the rest of his life and never be bored of it’.

Fili shook himself again, the beads in the fur at his neck clinking together, then leapt forward to Thorin’s side. They slipped into the trees near silently and were out of sight of even Kili’s sharp eyesight in short order. He frowned a little, a familiar flare of irritation coming to life within him.

“Fili has the best sense of smell.” Frerin informed him mildly. Kili looked at his uncle, nose twitching at the scent of the hobbit’s now exposed leg. Rotten meat and infection; Thorin may have been right about it not surviving. “That’s why he takes your brother.”

He regarded Frerin quietly. Fili looked much like Frerin did, both of them possessing long blond hair, though Fili’s mostly hung free and Frerin’s was pulled into a single thick plait with a few thinner braids, beads of metal and bone, and bits of metal wire weaved in, paler skin, wider noses, and sharing a stocky build and broad shoulders. Frerin’s beard was longer, held with a single metal clasp, but he kept his mustache in the same style Fili favored, possessing two jeweled beads on the ends. His eyes were the same brown as Kili’s but beyond that he looked very much like what Kili imagined Fili would look like in a hundred years.

Yet for all Fili and Frerin looked alike they were very different. Fili was like a force of nature, the calm before a violent storm if he was anything at all, confident and brash, made up of sharp toothed smirks, wild gleaming eyes, and wicked laughter that did horrible things to Kili’s heart. Frerin was softer in a way that, perhaps ironically, reminded Kili of the hobbits of the Shire. He was rolling hills and bright summer days, quiet encouragement, gentle comfort, and eyes that Kili had never known to not be full sympathy and care.

Now, as he checked the hobbit’s stitches and dabbed on his salve, his attention was half on Kili, a thoughtful frown on his lips. He was waiting for Kili to say something, or at least acknowledge that he’d heard the words his uncle had said to him many times before. He was tired of this talk and Frerin’s quiet scolding but he knew not what to do except go through it again.  

“I know why he takes Fili.” Everytime. When Thorin traveled to the towns of men to work, leaving for months and months at a time, he took Fili. When he went to speak to the dwarves who didn’t shun them he took Fili. When he went to get information of Erebor he took Fili. When he wanted to pass on his knowledge in blacksmithing, music, and sword wielding he’d chosen Fili.

When he’d publically named his heir after Kili’s soul mark had begun to form it had been Fili he’d named, contrary to all expectations he would choose the alpha nephew over the omega. Even Fili had been surprised though he’d taken on the extra responsibility and work with a single minded focus. He would be a good king when the time came, Kili didn’t doubt that at all. Probably better than Kili would have been, honestly. He didn’t think Thorin had made the wrong choice, and he would bite the neck of any who said Fili shouldn’t be king because he was a bearer, and yet...it chafed.

“The hobbit is going to turn.” Frerin said, settling back on his heels. “The infection is bad and he burns with fever, no surprise with a warg bite, but I think most of the problem is the change. He must feel like his bones are on fire, his blood searing him like acid, and his insides melting while he still breathes to feel it all. It is no wonder he screamed so.”

Kili said nothing, unsure of what he could say in the face of such a thing. He’d been born a wolf, inherited the curse that plagued their line like Thorin and Fili had, but Frerin had been bitten. He knew what it was to have the change come over a body that was never meant to suffer it. The heavy sorrow in his eyes turned any words Kili would have thought of to bitter ash on his tongue.

Kili would have been lying if he said Frerin wasn’t the reason he and Fili hadn’t wanted to kill the hobbit. To strike down someone before it had been seen how they would turn, to do any less than the ones who’d stayed their hands when they could have killed Frerin rather than wait for the moon, was something that would have haunted him.

“He’s healing fast. I think the change will complete in time to fight the infect and let him keep the leg. A day or two and he’ll be able to travel.”

Kili blinked in surprise; it had only been two days since the attack. “So soon?”

“He’s healing _very_ fast.” Frerin said, the worry in his voice plain. “Either he is very resilient, his gift will be in his healing, or…”

Or he was turning warg. Wargs were not just bigger and faster but they were hardy beasts as well, healing faster than wolves and supposedly feeling no pain. They could be torn to ribbons and would keep coming, wounds closing right before the eyes of the ones they fought against. Or so Kili had heard. The wargs they’d killed to save the hobbit were the first he’d ever seen or helped kill, though it was Fili who Thorin was crafting a bone bead for while Kili would get nothing ( _“When it’s your blow that fells a warg you’ll get your bead.” His uncle had said, as he cleaned the bone he’d be using. “Your time will come.”_ ) So he didn’t know what stories were true and which ones were just horror tales to keep young wolf pups from venturing into the woods alone.

“You’ll need to be ready if he turns badly.” Frerin said finally, smiling sadly as he reached for the fresh bandages. “The faster we end him the kinder it will be. Your arrow will need to be quick and land true.”  

He nodded his understanding and was graced with another small smile. Frerin motioned for him to come around and help with the bandaging. Kili’s nose twitched again, the mixture of herbs and infection not kind to his stomach, but he put his hands where he was told and held the cloth firmly as Frerin began to carefully wrap the injured leg. No words passed between them for a time as his uncle finished up then began to wipe the hobbit down with a mixture of cool spring water and herbs before applying a thick paste to the hobbit’s, oddly hairless, chest.

“You think he favors Fili because you’re an alpha and that he’s fighting you for your brother. Which is so very off base it makes my head throb.” And so they were back to their original conversation.

In Kili’s defense he didn’t think Thorin was fighting him for Fili in the way Frerin was suggesting. Their issue was a bit more subtle than mating. But also was very much about mating.

“Nevermind that Dwalin is an alpha-”

“Dwalin is his mate.” It was a completely different matter altogether. Most families had one alpha and while an exception could be made for a mate, there was not one for nephews. He and Thorin had been clashing since Kili’s first change had shown him to be an alpha, though they’d yet to come to blows. It had been a near thing a few times, teeth bared and claws growing as fur started to sprout, but always broken apart before it could go that far and followed by everyone telling Kili to stop challenging his uncle like he did.

He didn’t mean to, not really, but the alpha in him hated to submit almost as much as the dwarf in him hated being passed over time and again. Something burned in his blood and stirred in his gut and told him to push back, to challenge his king.

Especially when it came to Fili, the source of most of their conflict. They quietly fought over who would have the blond’s loyalty, who he would side with when they had conflict, whose home he would stay in when time came for Kili to, inevitably, move from his uncle’s den. Kili was convinced their matching soulmarks said they were meant to be, but Thorin wouldn’t declare them mates and Kili raged. Fili refused to fight for the right; the last time they’d spoken of it his brother had firmly reminded him that the marks could mean they were platonic soulmates, that their brotherly bond was written into their very hearts and bones, and not that they were mates.

They wouldn’t know for sure until they found their third, the one who caused the image of a quill to bloom on their skin in the beak of a raven and under crossed swords.

Yet the wolf in Kili howled mate, the alpha whispered ‘mine’, and his heart ached for his brother. That Fili didn’t feel that, actually thought the marks might mean something other than they should be mated, had been...devastating. So he didn’t speak of it with Fili anymore and instead waged his battle against Thorin for his brother.

Who would no doubt beat both of their skulls in if he ever realized what laid at the center of most of their disputes.

Frerin shook his head slowly. “Dwalin is an adult who no longer lets hot blood and his cock rule him.” His uncles pointed look was, honestly, just offensive. Kili was no wolf pup anymore, he had been fully grown for years now. Not that one could tell by his beard, damn the thing. “If you could have seen them when they were your age you would not have thought it was possible they’d be mated, except they fucked as often as they came to blows.”

“Eww.”

“I could scarcely walk into the den without find those two engaged in those alpha dominance displays you all enjoy so much.”

“Uncle-”

“Do you know how many times I’ve seen Dwalin’s bare ass Kili? Or seen his teeth in my brother’s neck while he mounted him? Hundreds, Kili, _hundreds_. The sight is forever burned into my brain. Forever. I sometimes see it when I close my eyes, Dwalin’s ass and stones, that tattoo on his back flexing as he-”

“I’m going to be sick all over the hobbit.”

“Imagine how I feel watching you moon over your brother.” His uncle said tartly. “It’s stomach turning.”  

“I am not mooning.”

He was mooning. Pining. Was so completely smitten that no other dwarf or wolf could begin to turn his head. It was, Kili knew, a bit disgusting how unable he was to see anything but Fili and how obvious he was about it, but he couldn’t help that any more than he could help anything else involving his brother.

Frerin’s bark of laughter echoed around them. He pouted even as his uncle patted his shoulder soothingly. “I’m going to wash my hands, see if you can get the hobbit into one of your tunics. I think yours will fit his frame best.”

“Well now you’re just being mean.” He grumbled.

\---

Thorin almost let out a sound of relief when he saw Nori in the inn. And then bit back a groan of irritation when he realized the other dwarf was in the middle of a card game against a group of less than completely reputable looking men. And was winning quite handily, or more likely cheating rather skillfully, judging by the pile of winnings in front of him.

“Master Dwarf,” The innkeeper greeted him jovilly, though his smile dimmed when his gaze fell on the wolf at his side.

Fili was, he knew, quite the sight. Thick golden fur, sharp blue eyes, beads in his fur, slightly larger and more muscular than your typical wolf. Many a man and unaware dwarf had looked on his nephew’s other form and reeked of worry and fear.

The innkeeper’s scent took on an agitated note. “Would you not prefer to leave your animal outside, with the horses and ponies perhaps?”

Fili huffed in offense then, with a flick of his tail, trotted over to Nori who smiled broadly at the sight of the wolf while the men he was playing with cringed. Thorin watched him go then shrugged at the innkeeper, affecting helplessness. Untrue, Fili would follow any order Thorin gave without question, but it was better if the man thought him a bit wild. Men were less likely to try to pet or distract Fili if they feared being bitten, which allowed his nephew to put his nose to good use.

While Kili’s gift laid in his eyes, impressive in the daylight and allowing accuracy so deadly it was frightening in the dark, Fili’s was in his sense of smell. He could pick up subtle shifts in scents and follow anything he’d gotten a whiff of over all manners of terrain, water, and after lengths of time that should have been impossible. There were no hunters or trackers with more natural talent among their clan, though they had some years before they had the skill some others had. 

They were a matched set, truly. Thorin worried for their third; he didn’t know how any had a chance of fitting into what already seemed to be a perfect unit. Or how Kili, who already showed all the worst parts of an alpha’s possessive and jealous nature, was to share his brother.

But Fili, really, was the problem. Kili was a hot headed alpha who let his heart (or cock as Dwalin and Frerin would insist) lead when his head should but Fili...Fili was going to be the death of him, may Mahal save him from the horror of omega wolves. 

“We won’t be long.” he said, starting to turn. Only to stop when a thought occurred to him. “Though you may be able to help me. Did you have a hobbit staying here recently? About this tall with light hair and a red coat?”

The innkeeper’s face did something complicated, watery eyes flitting to the side then back to Thorin anxiously; fear rolled off of him in thick waves. He swallowed then, plastering on a very fake smile, shook his head. “I’m afraid not Master Dwarf. Perhaps you’d like to leave a message?”

Thorin opened his mouth but a shout of his name pulled his attention back to the table. Nori was gesturing to him to come over, still smiling but eyes shadowed and unreadable. Thorin nodded his thanks to the innkeeper then made his way through the bustling crowd just in time to hear one of the shifty looking men speak.

“Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield?”

Nori smiled and nodded, the picture of drunken glee as Thorin came to stand next to him. If he hadn’t known to be looking for it he might have missed the way Nori’s hand twitched towards his belt where he no doubt had knives hidden away. Nori was the only person Thorin knew who came close to Fili when it came to hoarding weapons on his person. It spoke to Nori’s paranoia and the life he’d lived that caused him to be so suspicious, but was a habit that had saved Thorin’s life more than once and so it was appreciated.

Thorin didn’t go for his sword but he shifted so he was on the balls of his feet and standing at the ready, prepared to act. The men exchanged looks and Thorin could practically see the ill intent and greed burning in their hearts. Fili growled, low and threatening.

“Aye, that’s him. You’ve heard of him then?” Nori asked casually.

“I have.” A voice called from a darkened corner. Thorin glanced to the side and saw a tall figure in all gray, topped with a pointed grey hat, lean out of the shadows. Blue eyes peered at them from beneath thick grey brows. A staff was clutched in one of his hands, end resting on the floor.

Thorin growled. “Gandalf.”

Fili’s head jerked up in surprise and Nori hissed through his teeth. The men, already mostly forgotten, shifted uneasily then hastily left the table. Gandalf watched them go, brows furrowing for a moment, before returning his attention to Thorin.

“I believe you have found something of mine, Master Oakenshield, and I think I should like it returned to me. It’s about this tall with light hair and wearing a red coat.”


	3. A Fairy Tale From Long Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is building. Thorin very much doesn't want to know what it is, thanks.

A smarter dwarf, especially one afflicted by the change and thus fearing a wizard and magic, would have told Gandalf everything immediately. A more even tempered dwarf would have taken Gandalf’s sharp tone in stride, silently reminding himself of fact the wizard had just scared off those ill intentioned men. A better dwarf would have held his tongue, at least pretending to be civil, because this was not the best environment for an argument and, honestly, he should have been happy to offload the wounded hobbit.  

He had wanted to behead him, not let him turn, after all and had only refrained because of his family. He had no desire to look after this hobbit and doing so now that Nori had arrived would just keep them from returning home.  

Yet Thorin was who he was. Efficient in areas of tactics and leadership but not smart in diplomacy (or perhaps laze to have Balin tell it), a bit cantankerous, and he did not consider himself a particularly _good_ dwarf at the best of times. He didn’t like being told what to do and he especially didn’t like it when it came from wizards who his grandfather and father counted as friends.

Besides the hobbit had been bitten and, in this part of Arda, that made him Thorin’s responsibility. He was slowly crawling into their world and that was no place for the machinations of wizards.

“I was not aware wizards were in the habit of owning others.” Thorin didn’t bother keeping the scorn from his voice, not even when Nori sighed loudly and shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t seem eager to return your missing ‘thing’ to you.”

Fili, now back at Thorin’s side and pressed against his leg, stood a little taller, fur along his neck puffing up. Thorin brushed a hand over the top of his head, a silent command to be calm; Fili didn’t know much about wizards and, while Thorin wasn’t about to turn over their hobbit on command, he also wasn’t going to attack. Gandalf may play at being a weathered and hunched old man but Thorin could *feel* the something more brushing like static over his skin about it and see it in the narrow lines of his body and darkness at the corner of his so very blue eyes. Even if he hadn’t known what Gandalf was he would not have mistaken him for an unusually tall old man.

That was Thorin’s gift, the counterpoint to his curse; a faint touch of enhanced perception and awareness. He had longed for something a little more useful in his long ago youth, like Dwalin’s strength, Frerin’s healing, or Nori’s ability to fade into the shadows, but with age came strength, change, and acceptance.

It had it’s charms on occasion.

Gandalf regarded him silently for a long moment; the prickling buzz wafting over Thorin’s skin grew in intensity until it felt like pins and needles from fingertip to elbow. The inn had gone quiet around them, the noise and chatter fading to tense whispers as the other patrons tried to parse what was happening. When he glanced around at their faces he could see some were hoping for violence or at least drama, eyes wide and smiles unpleasant, and others anxiously drawing towards the corners of the large room. There was tension in the air, as if time itself had paused and was holding it’s breath in anticipation.

Finally Gandalf leaned back and laughed, loud and echoing off the walls.  Time breathed out and the noise around them returned in full force. Laughter, singing, the clinking of glasses filled Thorin’s ears and he wondered absently if the dimming had only been in his own mind.

“Right you are! Bilbo, that’s our mutual acquaintance, would be very displeased if he had heard me refer to him so. Sit down, Master Oakenshield, and we shall discuss what has happened. I have no doubt the circumstances that had Bilbo crossed your path are...interesting.” There was a tightness to Gandalf’s tone as he said the last word and a flicker of something dark in his eyes but Thorin could sense it wasn’t directed towards him.

He and the wizard both looked towards the innkeeper to find the man pale faced and trying very hard to not look as if he was watching them. Sweat dotted his brow and his pupils were blown wide when Thorin caught his eye. The innkeeper flushed red then went chalky white and whipped around to look elsewhere.

Curious.

Thorin lowered himself into the seat across from Gandalf, eyebrow cocked. Gandalf hummed noncommittally before raising a hand and gesturing to the tavern maid closest to hem.

“Pardon me! Three more meals and ale for my friends, thank you. ...best bring a whole pitcher, if you don’t mind it.”

The woman looked perplexed for a moment, eyes darting for Nori to Thorin, before finally settling on Fili. She tilted her head to the side then shrugged, visibly deciding to not question it, and turned to melt into the crowd. Thorin made as if he was watching her but his focus was truly on watching the innkeeper speak to another, perplexed looking, maid then turn on his heel and dash for the door.

“Now, I seem to recall you rarely travel without nephew near, though I do not see him now.” The wizard said, the verbal wink as clear as if he’d physically done it. Thorin hoped how not impressed he was showed on his face. Most outside of cursed Erebor knew nothing of wolves, and those who did were prone to trying to kill them, but it was no surprise Gandalf knew him for what he was.

Admittedly the last time he’d seen the wizard Fili had been a babe and he was slightly bothered that the wizard knew that his nephew was a wolf, and that Thorin kept him close, but it wouldn’t do to show that. Gandalf had often shown signs of knowing more than he should and an unwillingness to share anything meaningful until he was good and ready.

He was very much like Dis now that Thorin thought about it.

Dis would, he was sure, not appreciate the comparison.

“There’s a room upstairs, the fourth on the left, with a window that overlooks the back of the inn. An interested young dwarf may find clothes that fit, more or less, up there. Hobbit clothes, mind you, but serviceable nonetheless. And perhaps Nori can show your wolf out; I don’t think you’ll have much need of him while we talk.”

Thorin considered it for a moment, well aware that what the wizard really wanted was for Fili and Nori to go after the innkeeper, then gestured for them to go. Fili tarried long enough to lay a warning look on Gandalf and headbutt Thorin’s hand then trotted out of the inn after Nori. Gandalf contented himself with lighting his pipe and leaning back in his seat, not speaking a word until the maid had returned with 3 mugs filled to the point of sloshing foam as she sit them down and plates loaded with warm meats, cheese, fruit, and bread. Gandalf reached out and took her hand briefly; when he pulled it back Thorin saw the corner of a scrap of parchment before Gandalf closed his fist around it. The maid tucked a few coins into her bodice, bowed, and then was gone again.

“What was that?”

“A small matter of information being exchanged.” Gandalf said dismissively. “I am glad to have crossed paths with you. I had planned to come to your lands soon, if my planned trip to Erebor didn’t turn out as I wanted it to.”

Thorin nearly choked on his mouthful of, disgustingly weak, ale. Gandalf chuckled softly but affected innocence when Thorin glowered at him. “Why would you come to see me after such a visit? I have nothing to do with Erebor.”

Aside from having spies inside and requesting Nori risk his life to run information back and forth regularly. But that was a matter of safety for his people and nothing more. The king had decided he would not suffer any of their kind to live and Thorin was not fool enough to think distance or shared blood would keep Thror’s eyes off of them forever.

His grandfather had been very clear about the terms of his banishment and even if he hadn’t the treatment of Dis, Frerin, and the boys had destroyed any urge Thorin had to return to his former home. Wolves were not welcome within the Lonely Mountain and his siblings carried the scars that proved it.

No, he thought as he tore his bread into chunks, none from his pack or the ones who answered to him would ever suffer at his grandfather’s hands again.  

Gandalf’s expression lost its humor, turning pensive. “I have found that the things we think we are done with are rarely so finished with us but, for now, I shall speak no more on it. Instead I will ask what happened with Bilbo. He was to meet me here and yet his room is unslept in and I hear you asking after him.”  

Thorin could have asked for more of an explanation, demanded to know what Gandalf meant with his cryptic words but he made himself hold the questions back. Had he not just said he would have nothing to do with Erebor? Best he stick to that and not give in to his own curiosity.

“I will tell you what I know but my nephew would tell it better than I,” Seeing Gandalf glanced towards the door he shook his head. “Not that one. He isn’t with us.”

He rarely traveled with both nephews at all and certainly wouldn’t bring both into town to meet Nori with him. If ever the thief were followed or compromised it wouldn’t do to have both of his heirs walk into a trap with him. He would not see either harmed, if he could help it, but risking both at the same time would be nothing but foolishness.

Not that Kili saw it that way but then his younger nephew seemed to think even the rising of the sun and change of seasons was out to keep him from his brother.

“He was here, keeping watch out for Nori, when he saw your hobbit being lead away by a man.” Thorin looked at the Wizard over the top of his mug. “You ought to have told him not to go into the woods with strangers.”

Gandalf’s lips twitched upwards. “I rather thought he knew that but, then, it is not in his nature to be suspicious. Hobbits have little reason to be and, if the man approached him using my name or claiming to speak for me, Bilbo wouldn’t know to question it.”

Thorin couldn’t imagine a life that allowed one to not be suspicious of anyone and everyone. They taught their pups to never trust anyone but wolves and to regard even wolves from outside of the pack warily.

“My nephew caught the scent of warg on the man and ran back to alert me.”

“Warg.” Gandalf repeated, brows knitting together, then dropped his voice so low Thorin had to lean forward. “You’re certain? There are few wargs who can assume their former shapes, as you well know.”

He hesitated, unsure if that was an veiled slight against Kili’s abilities, but the urgency on Gandalf’s face told him it wasn’t. No, it seemed the wizard was hoping that it was some other fate that had befallen the hobbit.

“I know not if the man was a changer or just carried the scent.” There were, occasionally, men who worked with orcs and wargs for reasons Thorin couldn’t begin fathom. “I am certain that we found the hobbit being attacked by wargs. We destroyed them but not before the hobbit was bitten.”

Gandalf sat up straight so abruptly that a few others glanced their way in surprise. The air around them changed, gained a weight and chill Thorin could feel in his bones, and the shadows reached from the corners with spindly fingers.

“Bitten? And...he is-”

“Alive yes. But changing.” Thorin couldn’t help the surge of emotion that rose up in him when Gandalf’s eyes flickered shut and pain flickered across his face. The air lightened and that shadows retreated; Thorin found himself offering something he rarely had to spare: hope. “We know not how it will go. He might turn well.”

“I was friends with his mother. I had not met such a spirited hobbit in all my years. Curious, fierce, and kinder than any creature I’d met before or since. I doubt she would find comfort in her son turning well.” Gandalf’s sigh was heavy and in that moment he looked...old. Tired.. “I thought an adventure might do him some good but I underestimated the forces that would work against me.”

Thorin said nothing. He had carried the weight of many lives on his shoulders for much of his life and still didn’t know the words to ease the guilt of failure. He ate and waited, focus on the door. Gandalf smoked and murmured to himself. Time slipped by as Thorin absently finished his food and drink. He was considering pouring another when the door of the inn swung open and his nephew stepped inside.

He had, it seemed, found the hobbit’s room and some clothes to make himself decent. The pants were far too tight and stopped above his knees and the simple white shirt was stretched so tightly on his arms and chest looked like a wrong motion might split the seams or at least send the buttons flying. His hair was wet and clinging to his face and neck, the skin of both tinged pink as if he’d been scrubbing at it. People were looking but Fili gave the appearance of not noticing, eyes on their table and not so much as flickering away. Thorin knew his nephew and so he knew by the bounce in Fili’s step and the smirk on his lips that he was well aware of the attention on him and was enjoying it.

“You look ridiculous.” Thorin said sotto voce. To think, this shameless wolfling was meant to be prince and potentially heir to Erebor, greatest of the dwarf kingdoms.

He feared what sort of ego that would have given Fili.

Fili’s smirk grew downright wolfish, allowing a flash of sharp teeth to show though he relented under Thorin’s disapproving look. He dropped into the seat at Thorin’s side, one of his legs folding up under his body and proceeded to shove food into his mouth with the hunger of one who’d just shifted. And to act as if the scent of blood wasn’t lingering on him.

Gandalf blinked as if coming awake. “Ah. Fili, isn’t it? You were what, three or four when I last saw you? Barely walking and not yet an older brother. You’ve...grown.”

Thorin cut in before Fili could say something in reply (Mahal forbid). “Where’re Nori.”

“He found a friend of his on his way out of town. He took him somewhere to talk.” Fili said easily, eyes falling on the third plate. Thorin moved it just out of his reach; Fili pouted. “Uncle-”

“Pack it up. We should attend to Nori and his friend.”

Gandalf stood up, gesturing to the tavern maid again. “Not to worry, I’ll arrange for something to take to them. I would very much like to meet Master Nori’s friend as well.”

Fili snagged the second plate with a distinctly smug look on his face.

Nori had only gone as far as the inn’s stables, commandeering one of the empty stalls. When Thorin asked where the stable master had gone off to Nori only shrugged and wiggled his fingers in a way that may or may not have been meant to say something. With Nori it was hard to say and Thorin knew better than to delve into it.

The innkeeper was bound and gagged in the stall, more or less in the same state they’d last seen him aside from his pants being wet and one of his calves being clawed up. Thorin frowned at Fili but his nephew merely shrugged, unrepentant. Gandalf stepped into the stall and as he did all traces of weariness left him. He towered over the man, eyes sharp and mouth pressed into a severe line, and the pins and needles feeling returned to Thorin magnified and sweeping over his entire body. A gesture at Nori had him pulling the man’s gag down and then ducking out of the stall to stand at Fili’s side.

When the wizard spoke the world shook. “What have you done?”

“I had to do what he asked! He was going to burn down my inn, I don’t have anything-”

“I care little for why.” Gandalf seemed to grow, filling all of the space in the stall and making the man cower further into the corner. The hair at the back of Thorin’s neck stood up. “What have you done?”

“The man, he told me that if anyone came asking after a wizard or if dwarves came by to let him and his friends know! That was it!” Tears slipped free from his eyes and he shook in terror. “I didn’t know they were going to do anything to the hobbit! They didn’t tell me anything about anything, I swear it!”

Thorin stepped forward, glancing at the wizard askance. “The men who were eating with Nori? Those were the ‘friends’?”

A frantic nod. “Y-yes. I was going to inform them about the dark haired one last night-” Fili hissed between his teeth and the man paled further, looking past Thorin with pupils stretched so wide his eyes were almost completely black. He shut his mouth with an audible click and ducked his head down as close to his chest and bound hands as he could.

Gandalf, once again the unassuming old man, clucked disapprovingly. “What did this man look like?”

“Ugly.” A voice offered behind them.

Thorin’s sword was half drawn before he’d turned completely to find the woman who’d served them standing there, a bag clutched in her hand. She was afraid, Thorin could smell it on her, but she was standing tall and firm, refusing to quake at the sight of three dwarves drawing weapons on her.

“And I don’ know about burning nothing, but I saw the ugly man giving _him_ gold two days before the hobbit got here.”

“Ah, Irena, very good, you brought the supplies and Bilbo’s things, yes, hand them to Master Fili, thank you.” Gandalf said, as genial as ever. “Tell me more about the man if you would.”

The woman’s eyes dragged over to the stall and hardened, mouth dragging down at the corners. “Southerner, I thought. Yellow tint to ‘is skin, thought he might be sick. Greasy dark hair, small beady eyes. Thin lips. Stable master? He’s been around all over the place. Said he looked almost like a goblin but ‘ve never seen one to say the same. You taking him? That was the deal.”  

Gandalf winked at them over his shoulder. “Indeed I am. Good luck with the inn my dear girl. I’m sure you’ll run it well.”

“What?” The innkeeper sputtered. “You sold me out? I rescued you from slavers,” Irena’s lip curled in a way that made Thorin fairly certain she disagreed about the nature of that ‘rescue’. “You ungrateful bit-”

Gandalf’s staff connected with the man’s skull with a loud crack. Thorin winced in sympathy as he slumped over, unconscious. “That is quite enough of that. Thorin would you mind terribly taking me to see Bilbo?”

“We should see about those men-”

“Long gone, I’m sure. Scurrying back to their master.” Gandalf’s expression was complicated, too many things passing by too fast for Thorin to get a read of it. “And it would be wise to leave them to it.”     

Thorin didn’t see how that could be wise but if the men were already gone it may be more trouble than it was worth to track them. They could, with Fili leading, but if they were on foot and the men on horseback there was no telling how long it would take, especially if they doubled back for Kili and Frerin first. Plus there was the matter of the hobbit.

“Fine. What of the innkeep.”

“I rather thought he would come along.” Gandalf spared the man a look. “I have further need of him.”

\---

The crying human was distracting. Kili was doing his best to ignore him in favor of watching Gandalf do something to the hobbit but the man was sobbing so hard he was barely able to breathe. The loud gasping chokes for air grated at his ears and the stink of fear, and urine, were far from pleasant. The way he was carrying on you would have thought Fili did more than scratched him a bit and then drag him through the woods a ways; he was barely even roughed up save some claw marks on his legs and a few other scratches and bruises.

Though he supposed having Thorin looming in front of him while Nori held a knife at his neck was very frightening.

Kili had thought to ask why they didn’t just put the man on Gandalf’s horse but Thorin had merely pointed at a silently fuming Fili as if that explained everything. Which it didn’t, not at all. It had, however, been a little distracting to see his brother in hobbit clothes, though the blond had since changed back into his usual attire.  

“You’ve done very well with him.” Gandalf declared at length, lowering his staff. He’d set a glowing stone in the top but, work apparently done, he plucked it loose and tucked it somewhere into his robes.

Frerin rolled his eyes. “I’ve tended to the bitten a time or two in my life.”

Gandalf nodded slowly. “So you have and will continue to do I’m afraid. The nature of wolves means there isn’t much I can do but I’ve helped some. He’s safe to move now and I believe will be awake very soon, though I don’t imagine I’ll be here to see it.”

“You’re leaving?” Thorin asked sharply.

“I must. Mister Pion,” the wizard pointed at the sniveling human. “And I will be going to Rivendell. I have a suspicion about the man who hired him but I would have the opinions of others before I commit to it. I will try to return before the moon but I ask that you stay with him until then.”

Gandalf paused then turned to face Nori. “I would hear what news you bring from Erebor.”

Nori looked uncertain but a wave from Thorin had him speaking. “It’s not good. Thrain has retreated to the treasury, no one had seen him in weeks by the time I left. The king is whispering of doing a mountain wide search and culling. Gloin’s wife is rounding up the known wolfkin to see if she can force marks to show and Dori is trying to quietly put out word that a caravan will be leaving soon but you know how that goes.”

“Slowly.” Frerin sighed.

“Slowly.” Nori agreed. “He can’t risk the wrong person knowing and it coming back to him, not when he has Ori to keep safe. We’ve sussed out a few, and it looks like Gloin’s boy is close to his first turning, but other than that everyone is keeping their mouths shut for fear of being burned next. They turn on each other over petty things these days.”

A chill ran up Kili’s spine. His uncles and mother tried to keep a lot of what went in Erebor away from him but the cullings and burnings were impossible to hide when they took in other wolves like they did. He knew how the mad king would periodically have his guards drag those he thought were wolves into Erebor’s main market, strip and shave them, then burn them for all to see, claiming it was Aule’s will that he purge the curse from their people in fire.

But fire didn’t kill wolves, nothing but beheading or having their heart’s destroyed could. So they burned and burned and burned, bodies struggling to mend and heal, pain so bad they screamed themselves raw, for hours. Only then, when the flames had died and all could see what ‘unnatural’ creatures had walked in their midsts, see that the king was right to destroy something that could burn and not die, would they be killed.

And if some of those who were burned actually did die in the flames, unfortunate dwarves who’d been judged incorrectly, then it was never spoken about.

Kili knew that once upon a time wolves had been sentenced to exile, not to death, and his mother claimed that long before that the wolves had been not seen as monsters, but as blessed guardians of their people. But then the curse had come and everything had changed.

Kili was certain that was just one of her many many fairy tales, full as the story was of dwarf warriors, dragons, and evil forces from a land that had supposedly sunk into the sea.  

Uncle Thorin and Dwalin said the dwarves in Erebor were cowards to allow such things to happen. Uncle Frerin said sometimes people did terrible things when they thought they were being threatened. His mother said they were scared of what they didn’t understand and scared of the king and scared of the _curse_.  

All Kili knew for certain was that Erebor sounded like hell and he was glad to have no memory of the place.

“As I feared.” Gandalf murmured. “I will go there after the next moon and see what I might do. There may yet be sense to be talked into Thror and Thrain.”

Thorin and Frerin snorted in unison and Nori barked out a bitter laugh. Gandalf smiled wanly but said no more until he had the bound man draped over his horse and had swung up behind him.

“There is a home in the Shire, in Hobbiton, called Bag End. It is Bilbo’s and I can think of no safer place for you all to be while I try to find the truth of what is happening. Stay with Bilbo until I return but only tell him what you must. I fear what he might do if left alone with the truth of this change.”

Thorin’s mouth opened, Kili could read the refusal on his face, but Frerin spoke first. “We will.”

Thorin glared. Frerin ignored him. Gandalf smiled gratefully before spurring his horse to life and taking off into the trees.  

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not staying in the Shire. We need to return home and make plans for more arrivals. Dwalin and Balin need to know there are men looking for us, men working with wargs.”

“Send a letter.” Frerin deadpanned. “Or travel without us. I think I can manage to keep our nephews safe for a weeks without you hovering. You trust me with that much don’t you?”

Kili thought for a moment that Thorin was going to shout. His face went red and his nostrils flared and lips pulled back to show his teeth, all of which came before a major blow up. But, all at once, Thorin deflated like a ball someone had driven the air out of. He stepped towards Frerin, stopped, narrowed his eyes, then turned away.

“Pack up. I want to be moving within the hour. Nori, see about getting a wagon.”


End file.
